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Title: Home, Pup!
Author: William Johnson Cory [
More Titles by Cory]
Euphemia Seton of Urchinhope,
The wife of the farmer of Tynnerandoon,
Stands lifting her eyes to the whitening slope,
And longs for her laddies at suppertime soon.
The laddies, the dog, and the witless sheep,
Are bound to come home, for the snow will be deep.
The mother is pickling a scornful word
To throw at the head of the elder lad, Hugh;
But talkative Jamie, as gay as a bird,
Will have nothing beaten save snow from his shoe.
He has fire in his eyes, he has curls on his head,
And a silver brooch and a kerchief red.
Poor Hugh, trudging on with his collie pup Jess,
Has kept his plain mind to himself all the way,
Just quietly giving his dog the caress
Which no one gave him for a year and a day.
And luckily quadrupeds seldom despise
Our lumbering wits and our lack-lustre eyes.
Deep down in the corrie, high up on the brae,
Where Shinnel and Scar tumble down from the rock
The wicked white ladies have been at their play,
The wind has been pushing the leewardly flock.
The white land should tell where the creatures are gone,
But snow hides the snow that their hooves have been on.
Ah! down there in Urchinhope nobody knows
How blinding the flakes, and the north wind how cruel.
Euphemia's gudeman will come for his brose,
But far up the hill is her darling, her jewel.
She sees something crimson. "Oh, gudeman, look up!
There's Jamie's cravat on the neck of the pup."
"Where, where have ye been, Jess, and where did ye
leave him?
Now just get a bite, pup, then show me my pet.
Poor Jamie 'll be tired, and the sleep will deceive him;
Oh, stir him, oh, guide him, before the sun set!"
"Quick, Jock, bring a lantern! quick, Sandie, some
wraps!
Before ye win till him 'twill darken, perhaps."
Jess whimpered; the young moon was down in the
west;
A shelter-stone jutted from under the hill;
Stiff hands beneath Jamie's blue bonnet were pressed,
And over his beating heart one that was still.
Bareheaded and coatless, to windward lay Hugh,
And high on his back the snow gathered and grew.
"Now fold them in plaids, they'll be up with the sun;
Their bed will be warm, and the blood is so strong.
How wise to send Jessie; now cannily run.
Poor pup, are ye tired? we'll be home before long."
Jess licked a cold cheek, and the bonny boy spoke:
"Where's Hugh?" The pup whimpered, but Hugh
never woke.
[The end]
William Johnson Cory's poem: Home, Pup!
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